


The Regular

by Finsternis



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 12:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13997922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finsternis/pseuds/Finsternis
Summary: Chris serves his Whiskey Sours.





	The Regular

"Whiskey Sour," demands the voice from under the brim of a cap hidden under the hood. Chris smiles and grabs the bottle from the shelf.  
The cap-and-hoodie guy is a regular. Third stool at the counter. It's always Whiskey Sour, three or four of them. Reasonable tip, no ‘thank you’s, just a nod of acknowledgement.  
Chris doesn't like him too much, but he isn't supposed to like people he serves. His job is to serve them drinks. That's it.  
The Regular stays longer this time around. He is on his sixth Whiskey Sour when Tony from security comes to ask whether they should call it a night.  
The hooded man finishes his drink, takes his cap off and runs his hand through his messy longish dark hair.  
He nods to Chris, leaves a generous tip and heads to the door. Unsteady on his feet, holding onto the unoccupied tables and stops in his tracks when Tony turns the stark light on.  
"Fuck," the man swears and Chris does feel for him.  
Chris gets to leave in half an hour, floors are swept, tables cleaned, glasses sorted.  
It's almost light outside.

Chris sips his coffee. It's sour and overroasted and overpriced - green mermaid on the white background, his name in messy handwriting.  
Chris takes a sip. He takes a seat in the last row of the studio.  
Third years are rehearsing. It's a calming presence, a background noise far more welcome than the clinical quietness of the library.  
The script in Chris's hand is falling apart a bit - cheap paper, cheap folder.  
On stage the man is crying. His shoulders shaking, his breathing snatched scraps of air.  
Chris can't see his face, just the curve of his back, the mess of his hair - dark, longish, overdue a visit to the hairdresser's. Probably soft.  
Stupid thought.  
Chris opens his script and doesn't look at the man rehearsing a hysteria. Chekhov on the page is dry and rusty and foreign. Classics is not his favourite.  
The man on stage lifts his head. His hair now out of the way. Chris chuckles softly. Small world.  
The Regular must have noticed. There’s a moment of annoyance and hesitation and a fuck-I've-been-caught-look.  
Before it is a nod and an insecure smile. Smile. Chris hasn't seen him smile before.  
Was his Whiskey Sour not good enough?  
Chris nods in return and stands up and ignores the moment of panic in the man's eyes. Chris shoves the Chekhov print out into his bag and leaves.  
You don't need a guy who serves your drinks watch you rehearse a hysteria.

It’s another Saturday night.  
Chris doesn't strictly speaking need this job: he's on full scholarship. Well, he doesn't need the job for the money.  
"You can't do it without experience," his supervisor said. "To write about life, you have to have one." she said. She passed away a year ago, lung cancer. She was 57.  
The issue is - Chris is not very good at living. So he chose the next best thing - he watches other people live. And a bar on the 57th Street is as good a place as any to watch them do so.  
Divorced ladies over 40 in dresses from before the wedding clenching on the muffin tops from after the divorce - mostly something with Martini, or Cosmo, or Bloody Marry. Just because it has the same colour as the dress - they rarely finish it.  
A smile served with the cocktail and here is the story - tangled and messy and sad and lived. Real.  
Couples, on the other hand mostly aren't. They get through the usual routine of take-her-out-for-a-drink just to get to the more horizontal activities. Usually bit greedy with tips, no wonder if you are footing the bill for two.  
There are Randoms who never come back, there are Randoms who do. And there are Regulars. Regulars are Chris's favourites.  
They have names and they have stories: some of them their own ones, some of them the ones Chris makes up for them.  
The woman in her late 20s with an eastern european accent and a usual order of a sweet white wine takes a small table at the window, stares at her phone, checks her watch. Chris calls her Nadia and her date never shows up.  
There is Julia, on the other hand, and her date is Chris. She never accepts drinks on the house and chats about her new boss. She is 21 and her surname is McLenard-Eisenberger. Chris knows because he asked for the ID before mixing her Sex on the beach. Something tells Chris, she wouldn't mind less sandy surfaces either, but he's not interested.  
That's the thing. Chris watches. Chris listens. Chris takes notes. Chris makes up. But Chris doesn't touch. Mostly he doesn't want to.  
And then there is the Regular. The whiskey-sour-good-tip guy with nervous gestures and a hood over a baseball cap. He doesn't have a name and has blue eyes. Chris noticed the colour. Not in the darkness of the bar but in the rehearsal studio at the Julliard.  
Small overcrowded world.  
Wet blue eyes, sheepish smile, childish pout on a handsome face. Shit, Evans, stop - Chris says to himself.  
He's almost running two flights of stairs, corridor, further-further-further. Hair. It would be nice to run his fingers through that messy hair. Stop.

Chris is catching his breath. His back pressed against red brick wall. Police siren somewhere in the distance. Someone's heavy steps on the iron stairs of the fire escapes. Breathe. Stop breathing. Stop thinking. No. 

Late night - check. Shift at the bar - check. Third stool at the counter unoccupied. Relief and disappointment and tingling skin and just-could-you-stop-thinking about this stupid hair. And stubble and smile. Smile must be soft to the touch. You are not supposed to touch smiles.  
Chris wants to. Chris wants too much. Chris wants things for himself. It's new and unnerving.  
And nails dig into the palm of his hand. Please just stop. Silent plea to the guy above.  
He's permanently unavailable. Too busy with the muffin tops in the red dress to listen to Chris's blabbing. 

He comes. Whiskey Sour appears without the order. There is supposed to be a ‘hello’. There isn't. There is a sheepish eye contact - Chris chickens out. His tongue is dry, sticking to the top of his mouth. Nails deeper into the skin. He saw this man cry for show. He saw this man down six whiskey sours for real. Chris is not sure what's more intimate.  
Julia wants another Margherita. Chris reaches for tequila. The Regular's stare reaches the spot between Chris's shoulder blades. Chris hopes he's not sweating.

It's almost morning. Chris has lost count of Whiskey Sours. Okay, he didn't. Three. With a lot of water in between.  
It's almost light outside. Glasses are clean. Baseball cap lays flat on the counter. The Regular's fingers drum a soft rhythm next to it.  
The speakers are throwing up Karen O's version of Animone's Obsession.  
Chris's brain doesn't like the combination very much. What Chris's brain likes even less is when the fingers drumming the torn up rhythm grab his wrist. Warm. Confident. Hard. Desperate. Gentle. Fingertips on the pulse point. Boom. Boom. Boom. Less sandy surfaces in mind. Blue eyes.  
Stop. Don't stop. You have seen him cry. 

Grey sun rise pours over the street. Chris's back pressed against the wall. The Regular's lips pressed against his lips. Soft. Confident. Two-day stubble. Fingers laced through his hair. Divine. Soft and messy. Even messier. Real. Painfully so. 

Down the 57th street, right on the 10th avenue, another right. Uncoordinated search for student IDs. Door of the studio locked from the inside. Breathing. Messy. Snatched. Shared. ‘I've never’s, ‘Tshhh’s, ‘Please’s, ‘God Yes’s. Hands and lips and bodies pressed together. Skin on skin. Nails dragging down the spine. Pain - welcome and pulling and real. So fucking real. Selfish and selfless.  
And too much loneliness for two people.  
Chris is breathing heavily. Shaking. All sticky. Hard floor under his back. Textured wood under his fingertips. Head on his chest. He has seen this man cry. This man has seen him come.  
Chris wants the name.  
He's got the story.  
Maybe he can even make it his own.


End file.
